


Another Saturday Night

by nwspaprtaxis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bar Room Brawl, Broken Bones, Bruises, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Hustling, Pool & Billiards, Protective Sam Winchester, Season/Series 01, Undefined Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-10
Updated: 2010-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-12 23:13:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/pseuds/nwspaprtaxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>And I ain't got nobody. I got some money 'cause just got paid. Now, how I wish I had someone to talk to. I'm in an awful way...</em> A random bar. Another Saturday night. And Sam's still the one taping up his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Saturday Night

**Author's Note:**

> **_A/N:_** I need the sanity the Winchesters provide (what that says about me, I don't even wanna know) I'll keep forging ahead on writing fics even when I shouldn't. This actually grew out of the drabble written for the week of 1/31/2010, [Twist](http://archiveofourown.org/works/821380/chapters/1556814), and is a remix/flipside of sorts, from Sam's point-of-view. As always, a kazillion thanks and a huge smish to my wickedly fantastic Beta **mad_server** for the endless support and editing.
> 
>  ** _Disclaimer:_** Do not own. Am not making a profit. Just simply having fun with their psyches and returning them slightly more battered to Kripke and Co. and all that Yada Yada. Don't even own the rights to the song of the same title by Cat Stevens that was the inspiration for my own title and a portion of the summary.

Sam hazards a glance towards the shadowy corner where a knot of bikers has gathered, where Dean's hustling pool, trying to get some cash to replenish their dwindling funds. Raising the bottle of Bud Light to his lips, Sam takes a long swallow as he watches Dean. His brother is totally relaxed, totally in his element, playing the crowd with charm and charisma, despite the hulking goons twice his weight surrounding him, and Sam knows that this is the closest Dean comes to being truly _normal_. When he sees a Marisa Tomei lookalike drape herself over his brother, he grins to himself, filing the image away for future ammo, and turns back to Dad's leather journal, flipping through the pages, trying to find something that matches up with the slightly suspicious newspaper article he'd found earlier at the library.

Suddenly, he hears glass shatter and whirls in time to see Dean's head snap back under the force of a single blow. And Dean falls to the floor like a sack of bricks.

"Hey!" Sam's at Dean's side in a second, kneeling on the beer-sticky floor, journal still in his hand. "Dean?" he keeps his voice as low as he dares, futilely trying not to draw even more attention, slapping his supine brother's face gently, overlooking the way the warm, tacky blood streaming from Dean's nose, over his cheeks, lips, and chin coats his fingers.

"C'mon, man, don't do this." He can feel the eyes of everyone in the establishment burning into his back. He wants nothing more than for Dean to come back around and for them to get out, right now.

When Dean doesn't wake, Sam rounds on the bystanders. "What the hell happened?" The words come out angry, a hard challenge. "Who did this?"

"He cheated me!" a burly local accuses, holding the cue stick horizontally in front of him in a white-knuckled grip, as though it were some kind of staff.

 _Fantastic_ , Sam thinks. He doesn't have the time or patience for this. Part of him really wants to coldcock the bastard. He sees the pile of crumpled bills and change on Dean's side of the pool table. "Take them." He waves towards his brother's winnings. "I don't care."

"But he won those fair and square," someone else protests halfheartedly.

"I don't care. Divvy them up… take them all… just… go." Sam turns back to his brother. "Dean?"

Dean's eyes flutter open and… _fuck_ , Sam curses silently. In the dim, neon light of the bar, his brother's pupils are blown, blackness almost completely swallowing green-hazel, but they're equal and that ought count for something. "Dean?" He knows immediately by his brother's vague look that he's not tracking. "Hey, man, don't go back to sleep, okay? We're gonna get out, okay?"

No response. Just a woozy, vacant stare.

 _Crap_. He stuffs the journal in the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie, freeing his hands. He manages to wrap his fingers around his brother's upper arms, gripping his triceps, and pulls him very slowly into a sitting position. Sam hesitates, still holding his brother upright, not wanting to push him too quickly too soon. Dean blinks dazedly, then steadies. Sam takes it as a sign that Dean's not going to pass out or throw up and stands, dragging his older brother up with him, until Dean's on his feet. When they're vertical, Sam stoops, reaches around his brother's waist, grabbing the belt-loops of his jeans, and eases Dean's arm across his shoulders.

The change in altitude is a bit too much for his brother and he feels Dean's free hand make contact with the front of his sweatshirt, fingers gripping and twisting the material, pulling him down with the shift in weight as Dean hunches over slightly.

"Hey. You okay?" he asks, leaning forward as he hears his brother's sick, greasy swallow. He freezes, giving Dean a moment to gather himself. Dean doesn't vomit and Sam can hear a relieved, shaky exhale escape. "You're okay. Jus' take it easy. He KO'd you good there." He can tell by the slight tightening of Dean's grip on his hoodie that Dean's somewhat coherent and has understood.

No one bothers to stop them as Sam half-drags his stunned brother from the bar, never loosening his hold, and tows him outside into the cold January air. Dean seems to revive a bit when Sam hustles him into the Impala, probably from a combination of the fresh air and the proximity of the car.

 _Dean'd recognize his baby even blind and deaf, bound and gagged_ , Sam thinks ruefully as he folds up his long legs under the wheel, sliding the key into the ignition. As he turns on the car, Metallica blasts out of the speakers at full volume.

Jerking back in surprise, Sam instinctively reaches out and lowers the music, intending to shut it off, but when he sees Dean's expression clearing slightly, recognition flickering, he leaves it on. It's not far to the motel and it'll keep his brother on this side of awareness. Sam shakes his head, smiling to himself, easing the oversized car out of the narrow parking space. The one time he can pick the music, he's playing mullet rock. On cassette.

Pulling into the motel parking lot, Sam maneuvers the Impala into a spot as close to their room as he can get. A glance at Dean slumped in the seat confirms that he's not going to move under his own speed anytime soon. Sighing, Sam cuts the engine and goes around to the passenger side where he hauls Dean from his seat, ignoring the feeble moan of protest that doesn't even count as a legitimate sound, and half-carries him to the room.

Inside, he sits Dean on the edge of the rock-hard bed and hits the switch, flooding the pad with light. The first real sight of his brother's face in the bright, harsh fluorescents makes him hiss. But he's relieved to see Dean's still-blown pupils slowly shrink. Slower than normal, maybe, but they're reactive.

"Shit, Dean. Your face," he breathes, unable to tear his eyes from the swelling. There's no colors yet, but Dean's nose is twice its normal size, both eyes already beginning to look puffy. Dean blinks at him, orienting to his voice. Bright blood still trickles sluggishly from his nostrils, adding scarlet to the maroon streaks striping his chin. _Most likely broken_ , Sam thinks, feeling a renewed urge to throttle the jerk. Okay, granted, Dean had been hustling pool, but still… _What the hell did the other dude think he was doing? Playing Go Fish?_

Swallowing back his anger, Sam ducks into the bathroom with its cracked-tile walls and comes back with an ice pack and Advil, setting them wordlessly on the bedside table. With an exhale, he shucks off his brother's leather jacket and flannel overshirt. "'S okay, Dean," he says, sensing his brother's slight anxiety as he crouches before him, unlacing his boots. He knows most of it is probably from the fact Dean can't see too well and the rest from disorientation. "Just relax." The boots come off, followed by jeans. "I'm not going anywhere. I gotcha."

He gets the pills down Dean's throat and eases him onto the bed, placing the ice pack over the worst of the swelling. "You've got a broken nose and two black eyes," he tells his brother as he covers Dean with the stiff, fake-fuzz, peach-colored motel blanket. "Get some sleep." Sam goes back into the bathroom, where he fills the ice bucket with warm water and grabs a soft facecloth.

When Sam returns, he can hear that Dean's asleep, his breath slow and measured with the occasional hitches of air. _Definitely a broken nose_. Sam begins cleaning his brother's face. When all the blood is gone, all that's left is the tight, puffy skin stretching across the bridge of his nose and high on his cheeks that's already turning hues of reds and violets. Replacing the soft, chemically-filled ice pack, he probes Dean's skull for goose eggs and soft spots, checking for concussion or a cracked head, and he's relieved to find none. _Just stunned, then_.

Leaving Dean be for the moment, Sam sits on his own bed and powers up his laptop, and settles in for a long night.

**::: ::: :::**

"Wha' happn'd?" Dean slurs from his bed. "S'm..."

"I'm here." Sam sits up on his bed, swinging his feet to the floor. "How d'you feel?"

"M'face's sore." Dean raises his hands slowly, gasping sharply as they come into contact with his nose as he removes the melted ice pack. "Fuck."

"Yeah. Some jackass belted you good last night for hustling. You didn't even stand a chance." Dean turns his face towards him and Sam winces. "Can you even _see_ , dude?"

"Things are a little blurry," Dean confesses reluctantly, sounding almost disappointed.

Sam huffs a breath. "I bet. Anything else?"

Squinting, Dean perks up. "I can see colors again."

Pause.

"Dammit." Dean winces again, tentative fingers exploring nose. "Hope chicks dig bruises as much as scars."

Sam lets out a laugh. Dean's going to be all right. "Shut up, Casanova, and consider yourself lucky it was just your face and not anything… _permanent_."

Dean attempts to shoot Sam a murderous glare, but it's undermined by the swelling and nearly-closed eyes the color of ripe plums. The movement of his stiff facial muscles makes him groan softly. "Ow."

Sam grins widely at Dean, knowing his brother probably can't even see him, already jamming his feet into sneakers. "I'll just go and get us some coffee and a bite to eat."


End file.
